Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Captain was no stranger to the intimacy of a suit fitting.

He was used to the stuffy air of the atelier, the dim lighting, the tape measures, the sure hands; it wasn’t the expensive clothes that were the problem. No, it was the woman accompanying him, the one who all but dragged him here so she could play dress-up and admire her precious gem.

As much as he hated it, the lingering gaze and the way she tracked how the tailor's hands moved over his body, spending an hour—or a few—indulging her saved him a lot of grief.

But Thier was a wicked woman who expected him to obey. Even things so trivial as a fitting would be blown out of proportion—he would never hear the end of it. So he dealt, standing in front of a large, lit mirror as the tailor adjusted his shirt, marking lengths and setting pins before slipping the fabric from his shoulders.

And while Certa paid no mind to them, Thier's eyes zeroed in on the marks tarnishing his perfect, untouched, pale skin: small bruises and bite marks, still fresh and pink, that stuck out like a sore thumb.

She stood slowly, stalking towards him while he stepped out of his trousers. She watched how his muscles stretched and rippled under his skin—his marked, now-imperfect skin. Something ugly flared in her chest as she stopped behind him and reached around to trace her fingers over his collarbone.

Certa startled at the touch, standing up impossibly straighter to meet her eyes in the mirror’s reflection. She smirked, her hands trailing lower to his chest, pressing into the faint indentations of teeth that remained from a previous night's passion. "You should be more careful."

Certa furrowed his brows at her smugness, squinting but not turning around to face her. "Careful?"

"You've always healed quickly, so these must be new," Thier started, dragging her hands down to his waist before pressing into the curve of his lower back with the pads of her thumbs. "You shouldn't let some insolent..." She trailed off then, her eyes flicking between the expanse of his unmarked back and his marred front. A small, curious huff came from the back of her throat as her fingers moved to dig into his sides. "My, isn't this interesting?

He froze, subconsciously reaching up to cover a mark on his neck. "Spit it out."

"I wasn't going to say anything," she sneered, but her hands continued to roam. Certa, however, was no fool. He could feel the judgment in her eyes, the words held just under her tongue. "I'm just wondering." Her voice cut through the hesitation like a blade, sharp and merciless. "How it must feel to be beneath someone for once."

Certa bit the inside of his cheek. He knew exactly what she was getting at.

Wasn’t it obvious?

His back was spotless while his front is desecrated—whatever he was doing, he wasn't on top.

As if sensing the tension in the room, the tailor excused himself under the guise of needing another tool or piece of fabric. Certa’s eyes flicked to his retreating frame, a heavy pit of dread settling in his stomach as tension bloomed around them.

Thier took the opening to sink her teeth in, a wicked grin stretching over her features. “This explains your little tantrum, doesn't it, dear Captain?" She slid her hands up his sides, brushing over his chest before settling on his shoulders. "You're jealous that while I can indulge with women, you must hold your tongue and sin in the dark."

The Captain said nothing, but his mind reeled.

Thier had always disregarded laws and regulations, ones that They had set, ones that were supposedly necessary for order. Certa never let it get to him, he wasn't her keeper, but this was personal. She has no shame flaunting a woman at her arm, but if Certa had so much looked at a man sideways he'd be crucified.

Her only justification had been that she was a woman, that she had no biological responsibility, but it was thinly veiled bullshit.

Tessera controlled the population—the birth rate—there hadn’t been any ‘biological duty’ for a long, long time.

It was true that Certa was jealous, that he had exploded on her, but it was unimaginable that she could denounce something while actively participating in it. But, he didn't care that she was sleeping with women, he didn’t care that she did it so openly. What he cared about was that she had the audacity to tell him how to behave and forced him to adhere to what she deemed to be law while she could so blatantly disregard it.

He cared because his free will was stripped from him long ago.

Still, Thier pressed.

"You've always been an obedient thing. It's only natural for you to want something for yourself, isn’t it?" She cackled, almost like the notion of ownership was the singular, most funniest thing in the world. "That's what this is, yeah? You want a claim to the world, you want to be just like everyone else." She brought a hand up to comb through his hair, her nails scraping his scalp. “Does spreading your legs for some man make you feel human? Real? Or are you just an object of sick perversion? Some thing to fuck out of curiosity?"

Her hands trailed lower, fingers tracing the notches in his spine and the ridges of his ribs. Her touch was light, but not gentle, as she felt the sharpness of bone underneath his skin. Her path continued lower as she felt the firm definition of his abdomen, pressing into the sore spots that littered it. Further still, her palm smoothed over the soft curve of his lower abdomen, feeling the evidence of the useless organ that remained inside him.

Without warning, her hand dipped between his thighs and settled against the warmth tucked between. Certa's breath hitched and his muscles coiled like his legs wanted to squeeze shut, but he didn't move, didn't reach to pull her away; he let her. His body knew what came next, what it had learned to endure.

Seemingly satisfied with his reaction, Thier squeezed lightly, feeling the weight of him against her palm. "I can't believe someone touches you here, willingly. It's grotesque."

Her fingers pressed in, prodding him like she was waiting for a reaction, waiting for him to shudder, to recoil. But he doesn’t. He had learned not to. Instead, he stared at the ceiling with a blank expression, willing himself somewhere else, somewhere that was painless.

Thier didn’t like that, she never did.

“You used to cry, you know," she said, tilting her head. "Not so long ago, in fact. I liked you better that way."

Certa's stomach twisted as bile rose in his throat. Not today, was what he tried to tell himself even as his body braced for what might follow.

Her fingers moved back up to his waistband, tugging experimentally before she met his eyes in the mirror. His expression was void—emptiness creeping in like a slow rot, the kind that had taken root for centuries. His dissociation was displeasing as she tugged at his underwear once more, clicking her tongue impatiently. "Take these off."

The words, spoken with absolute authority, leave no room for disobedience. Or they shouldn't.

"No." Certa's voice was quiet but firm as he grabbed Thier's wrists, wrenching her hands off him.

She makes a sound—low, condescending, like she’s indulging a petulant child, like his defiance was cute. "You don't really have a choice, do you?"

And she was right, wasn’t she?

Certa wanted to crawl out of his skin. He wanted Thier’s hands off of him. He wanted her eyes to look elsewhere. It had happened before—this wasn’t new—but it never got easier. He knew he was an object, nothing more than a tool at Tessera’s disposal. He was used to being used, being forced to do things that were less than pleasing.

It was just how it is, how it has always been. Tessera wants, so it takes. And he, despite being one of Them, has never been allowed the privilege of refusal. It was always worse when he resisted. So, he didn’t. He didn’t stop Thier from pulling his boxers down, didn’t stop them as they fell to the floor around his ankles, and he didn’t speak up as she began to inspect him like he was some exotic animal.

His skin prickled at the sudden exposure, the cold seeping into his skin as her hands attempted to find some sort of purchase. He did not look at himself in the mirror. He couldn’t. So he kept his eyes on the ceiling, his breath even, controlled.

It’s nothing. It’s nothing.

It wasn’t like he was unaware—he had lived with himself for four hundred years. But living with himself didn’t mean he had accepted it. It was grotesque. Thier wasn’t wrong to say that. Maybe that’s why it hurt.

He didn’t need to hear what he already knew, and he didn’t need someone else to inspect him the same way he oft-inspects himself.

"How pathetic," Thier murmured, interrupting his silent reprieve as her hand found its way back between his legs.

Her fingers grazed his flesh, prodding at the delicate folds like they were foreign. Perhaps, on him, they were. For a man so sharp, composed, intimidating, he was awfully tender in places only he could see.

Certa swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes shut as she got more invasive: dragging her fingers through and spreading him just enough for him to feel like he was on display. What was worse, however, was that this torment could end in an instant. He could drain all the oxygen from the room and suffocate her in shadows…but he couldn't. Not to a Tessera. Not to his sister—even if the way she touched him, handled him, and reduced him to exactly what he was was hardly familial.

But she didn’t stop, no.

"How disturbed does someone have to be to want something like you? It sickens me." She presses harder and Certa shudders, bile rising in his throat as she laughed and curled her fingers like she was testing him. The sound of her enjoyment bounces off the walls just as it scrapes against his nerves while she tilts her head to watch him squirm. “Does he put his mouth here? Does he lick you in worship like you're something precious?"

Certa does not answer. He cannot.

Her touch lingers, testing, assessing, and Certa clenches his jaw. She has said these words before, others have said these words before, and they all bled together in his mind. His fingers twitched at his sides, but he doesn’t stop her.

He never does.

Though the Captain had never been one to pray, certainly not to the Creator, he finds himself asking for some sort of intervention. But none comes, of course. Only silence, only Thier's scrutinizing gaze, her wretched hands, and the vitriol she spouts.

"I know what it's like, you know," she continues, finally removing her hand and trailing it up to rest on Certa's hipbone. He breathes a sigh of semi-relief, but not yet relaxing; he knows she isn’t finished. "I know how it tastes, how soft it is, what it feels like when someone wants it. But I am a woman, and you..." Her voice is laced with venom when she chuckles, sliding her hand up to possessively grip Certa's jaw. “You are a sick, wretched, little mistake. It's a shame that something so perfect must be ruined by such an...unbecoming trait."

"Then don't look," Certa finally hissed through his teeth, but there was no bite—his tone was just as empty as his eyes.

Thier howled and leaned in, her breath hot against Certa's ear. "Do you genuinely think someone could ever want you?" She gripped his waist, her sharp nails nearly breaking his skin. "How does your partner do it? How does he stomach what you are? How does he keep himself from gagging at the sight of you?" Her nails dragged up his skin like talons claiming prey, leaving red lines in their wake. Her voice dropped to an almost sinister lilt, dark and filled with nothing but venom. "I wonder if he closes his eyes and pretends you're something else."

Certa’s chest tightened and his breath hitched before he could stop it as dread clawed to the surface. It wasn’t true, but his reflection stared back at him: bared, small, dissected. He had spent centuries trying to reconcile what he was, only to be told again and again that he was nothing. And now, here, with her hands dissecting every shameful inch of him, he could feel it sinking in again.

The shape of him had always felt wrong—too much and too little, too many contradictions in one ruined form.

Just before she could continue her sick fascination, there was a known at the door and Thier finally backed away. Certa quickly pulled his underwear back up, attempting to gather himself and reign in his running thoughts. However, even with his modesty replaced, the burning still lingered over his skin and sickness still curdled in his gut.

The tailor entered then, carrying a few garment bags over his shoulder. Thier smiled at the man, completely at ease, while she sat back down, waved him in, and crossed her legs like she hadn't just ripped Certa’s dignity to shreds. The Captain looked at the tailor, then at himself in the mirror as shame clawed its way to the surface.

"Shape up, Captain. We've got a lot to get through,' she drawled mockingly, reveling in the way his spine stiffened. "I'd like to see you in the navy set, next."

"Fine," he ground out, clenching his jaw but still managing a small, polite smile as the tailor handed him a pair of trousers.

The elevator ride was silent. Certa stood beside Thier, his shoulders squared and his hands curled into fists where they hung at his sides. His reflection in the metal doors stares back at him—hollow eyes, pale skin, the faintest tremor in his jaw. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to.

She’s already won.

Compliance.

Then the elevator doors slide open and the pit in his stomach sinks.

The Captain didn’t know how he was still standing. His legs felt weak beneath him, his hands still clammy at his sides, but he forced himself forward, one step at a time. Thier walked beside him, graceful and unhurried, as if she wasn’t about to set foot in a place she shouldn’t be. As if she wasn’t about to bring hell crashing down around them both.

He wanted to tell her no, that she couldn’t come in, that she was not welcome. But the words never made it past his lips because he couldn’t tell her no. Not to this.

His privacy had never been his. His body had never been his. His life—if it could even be called that—had never belonged to him. It was always Theirs. Always hers. So, he said nothing. His heart was beating too fast, his breath too shallow as he unlocked the door knowing what waited inside.

He slowly pushes the door open to reveal the unit. The penthouse is dark, but not unwelcoming, and the scent of burnt wood and something distinctly Ten lingers in the air.

Certa barely takes a step forward before he hears his voice.

“You’re back late.”

It’s casual, almost lazy. His Director is perched on the couch, a glass of something in hand, eyes flicking up from the rim. But then Ten sees him—really sees him, and his brows draw together.

There was something wrong. Certa looked small. Not in stature, not in presence, but in the way he held himself: shoulders drawn in just slightly, head lowered as if awaiting a blow. Ten had never seen him like this—like an animal too exhausted to run, too conditioned to know there is no point in running. His posture was stiff, his shoulders locked, his expression carefully empty.

But his eyes—gods his eyes—betrayed him. They were hollow, withdrawn, beaten in a way that made Ten’s stomach churn. Like a dog forced to heel. Like a child waiting to be struck. Ten feels sick.

“Certa? Hey, what’s—?” The Director instinctually moves toward him but stops short when Thier steps into the threshold, her sharp gaze settling on him with slow, deliberate recognition.

Then she smiles. It is not a pleasant thing.

“Well,” she says, her voice smooth, amused, like this was all some cruel joke that she was in on. “Isn’t this a surprise?”

Ten freezes. His hands tremble, the muscles in his throat work around something thick and heavy. It’s her. It’s her. The same woman who orchestrated his family’s madness, who dictated his suffering from a gilded throne. The same woman whose voice whispered through Eftichia halls, who blessed the hands that cut him open. She shouldn’t be here.

But worse than that—worse than all of it—she’s with Certa.

Ten’s throat felt tight and his heartbeat pounded against his ribs, like maybe his breathing would be cut and he’d send himself into cardiac arrest. But he forced himself to stay still, to stay calm, to not let her see the way his fingers twitched at his sides.

And it took everything in him to tear his gaze away from her and back to Certa. Certa, who had yet to look back at him. And that somehow made this worse.

Thier finally stepped inside, unhurried, confident, like she belonged here, like this wasn’t Certa’s home but some extension of her domain. Ten resisted the urge to step between her and Certa, to shove her back out the door and lock it—but there was no point. He knew how this went.

“What did you do to him?” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it reached her well enough.

Thier was already amused. He could feel it radiating off her, that sick, twisted delight she got from cornering something, from owning something.

Thier only smiled. “Oh, Ver,” she said, tilting her head. “It’s been so long. Is that really how you greet your Leader?” Her voice was sickeningly sweet as if she hadn’t noticed the way both men had turned to stone under her presence. "Are you going to invite me in, or should I assume your hospitality has declined since our last meeting?"

Ten’s fingers curled into fists, his knuckles going white. His first instinct was to deny her—but Certa had already stepped aside, had already accepted that his home wasn’t his to protect. That was when Ten broke. This wasn’t just about him anymore. This was about Certa. So Ten stepped aside too.

And he let the devil walk in.

“What a cozy little place,” she mused, brushing a gloved hand over the back of the couch. “Not quite what I expected, but then again, I’ve never known you to be much of a decorator.” Certa didn’t respond. She didn’t seem to care. Her attention turned back to Ten, a slow smirk tugging at her lips. “You’re quiet,” she said. “Not happy to see me?”

Ten’s jaw clenched. “Should I be?”

Thier laughed. It was the same soft, lilting sound Certa had heard a thousand times before—only now it made his stomach twist. “Come now,” she offered, her tone deceptively light. “That’s no way to treat an old friend.”

“Why are you here?” Ten finally asked, voice measured, nearly deadpan. There was no place for his mouthiness in her company.

Thier tilted her head, feigning innocence. “What, I can’t visit my baby brother?”

Certa’s stomach churned when Ten’s gaze flicked to him again, sharp, questioning. He wanted to say something, wanted to warn him—don’t react, don’t give her the satisfaction, please—but he couldn’t even open his mouth. He could only stand there, his fists clenched so tightly his nails bit into his palms.

Thier let the silence drag, soaking in the tension like it was a fine wine. Then, finally, she sighed. “I suppose it doesn’t matter.” She waved a hand dismissively. “I was with him earlier, after all. We had such a productive morning, didn’t we, Certa?”

He flinched at the words like her hands were on him again, the reminder enough to be physical. Smirking, Thier turned her back to them both, walking toward the kitchen like she had been there a million times before. Like she belonged.

“It’s funny,” she hummed, trailing her gloved fingers over the countertop. “I was helping him get fitted for a suit, you know? And what do I find beneath all that crisp, tailored fabric?”

The air in the room froze. Certa felt something inside him crack open. Ten stiffened.

“Oh, but you already know, don’t you?” Her gaze dragged over Certa, her smirk deepening. Then, like a well-placed dagger, she hums, “Did he tell you, Ten? That he isn't like you?”

Silence. Ten didn’t answer, so she stepped closer, too close, as she lifted a hand to trace her fingers over Certa’s jaw.

“You must have noticed.” Her voice was lifted in a false sense of surprise. “How could you not? You’ve had your mouth on him, haven’t you?” She leaned in then, speaking against the shell of the Captain’s but keeping her eyes locked with Ten’s, the statement clearly meant for him. “Did you taste it?”

A sharp breath from Ten, a barely restrained shudder from Certa. And Thier laughs again, delighted and cruel.

“Oh, look at you,” she purrs, her lips nearly touching the skin of Certa’s neck. “You knew, didn’t you, traitor?” Her hand trailed lower over the fabric of the Captain’s tailored slacks. “Tell me, when you fuck him, do you close your eyes and pretend?”

Thier glanced around Certa’s shoulder, and gods—she was enjoying this. She turned back around towards the kitchen, clasping her hands behind her back. “All those pretty little marks. You really are insatiable. And here I thought you were getting too old for all that reckless screwing around.”

Ten felt his breath catch and he was barely keeping himself from reacting. She didn’t know, not for sure—but she was guessing, and that was dangerous enough.

Her gaze flickered between them before settling back on Certa, her expression twisting into something cruel, something amused. "How long have you been keeping a pet, my dear Captain?"

Ten felt rage spark hot in his veins as his jaw tightened, but before he could open his mouth, before he could say something reckless, Certa finally spoke. His voice was quiet, steady, but Ten could hear the restraint in it, the careful control.

The way he refused to let her pull him apart.

“I don’t keep pets.”

Thier just smiled, tilting her head like she was enjoying a private joke. "Of course, you don’t," she said lightly. "Because that would imply you had something of your own to keep." Certa’s fingers twitched. Ten wanted to hit her. Then, like she was oblivious to the situation, she clicked her tongue. "You really have no pride, do you?"

Certa’s jaw worked but he didn’t speak.

"Not even a little?" She prodded, tilting her head and jutting her lower lip almost in pity. "You let yourself be handled like this?" Her eyes flicked to Ten with something between disgust and amusement. "You let him take you? Even I didn’t think you’d stoop this low," she continued, eyes moving lazily between them. "Fucking your own subordinate?"

She clicked her tongue again, shaking her head in disapproval. "The Captain of Yeohadan, reduced to rutting like an animal with one of his officers. And this one, no less. Have you truly no shame?"

Her eyes gleamed wickedly, like predator that finally cornered its prey. "Or is this what you really are, what you've always been? A little whore so desperate to be touched you’ll take whatever you can get?" Certa didn’t move while Thier hummed, thoughtful.

"I suppose that makes sense," she murmured, tapping her chin. "You were made, weren’t you? Not born. Not real." Her lips curled with disgust. "It’s only natural you’d seek meaning in whatever disgusting ways you can."

"But you—" Thier’s gaze shifted to Ten. "You’re the real mystery." She studied him, her eyes gleaming. "You chose this. You—Eftichia’s little runaway, the prodigal son, the wayward apostate—you had every opportunity to move on, to disappear, and yet here you are, bending over a thing that doesn’t even know what it is."

"What do you think he is, Ten?" Thier asked, voice dripping with mockery. "Is he a man? A woman? Something in between? A curiosity? A fascination? Some perverse little fantasy you get off on?" She exhaled like she was bored. "You should know best, shouldn’t you? You’ve had your hands all over him." She tilted her head. "Or maybe you don’t care at all. Maybe you just like fucking monsters."

"Shut up." Ten’s voice was low and shook with barely restrained rage.

Thier’s eyes gleamed with delight. "Oh?" She cooed. "Did I offend you?"

“Go to hell,” Ten seethed, his voice laced with venom. "You don’t get to sit here in his home and act like your filth means anything. You’re a fucking parasite."

Thier’s smile widened. "And yet," she supposed, "I’m the one who gets to live freely while you—" she gestured between them, "—have to hide in the dark like rats, licking each other’s wounds in secret. Isn’t that funny?"

Ten saw red.

He moved before he could even stop himself, barely aware of his own body as he took a step forward, but Certa caught his wrist. Ten’s head snapped to him, fury still boiling under his skin, but the Captain’s grip was firm, unwavering and his expression was unreadable. When Ten tried to move, Certa’s fingers tightened just enough to be a warning. And it was that that made Ten stop.

Not because he wanted to, but because Certa needed him to.

The Captain still stood stiff, his shoulders squared, his head high—stoic, the way he always was, but his knuckles were pale where his hands curled at his sides. His chest rose and fell just slightly too fast, shallow. He was standing there, unflinching, unyielding, but he was somewhere else. Somewhere even Ten couldn’t reach. And that was what made him sick. Thier had done this before. She had always done this. And Certa had always just taken it like he believed he had no right to do anything else.

"You know," she spoke, reminiscing, as she glanced back at Ten. "I never really understood why you ran. You had power, wealth, status, a family name that meant something. And yet you threw it all away to become nothing, become this." She gestured vaguely at him, lips curling in disdain. "And for what? Because we were cruel to you?"

Ten's vision blurred at the edges, but Certa moved before he could.

"Enough," he said, his voice quiet but unmistakably stern, cold.

And Thier, for the first time that evening, paused. Ten barely recognized Certa’s voice. It was too calm. Too flat. He turned, but Certa wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at her. And his expression—blank, cold, emotionless in a way Ten hadn't seen in a very long time.

Thier tilted her head, intrigued. "Enough?" she echoed with a chuckle.

Certa didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

For a long moment, the room was silent. Then, to Ten’s absolute fury, Thier laughed. It was soft at first, then rich with amusement, warm like a sister indulging a younger sibling's antics—except that warmth was mockery, pure and cutting. "Oh, Certa," she purred sweetly. "You almost sound like you think you have the authority to tell me what to do.”

Certa said nothing, but Thier's smirk lingered as she turned, brushing invisible dust off her coat. "Well.” She shrugged, strolling toward the door, "I suppose I am done here.”

Then, without another word, she saw herself out, and door clicked shut behind her, engulfing the room in an oppressive silence.

Ten felt like he couldn’t breathe, the air too thick to work through his lungs. But Certa still hadn’t moved. He stared ahead, his eyes devoid of any emotion. His breath was shallow, brittle like he was teetering on an edge. It made Ten’s stomach tighten.

“Certa.”

He didn’t respond but Ten knew he heard him because he flinched, his eyelids fluttering like he was bracing for something.

”Say something,” Ten hissed through his teeth, his tone rough, angry, but not at Certa. No, he couldn’t be mad at Certa, Certa who had been made to endure the cruelty of Tessera’s world. With a tight jaw, Ten took a slow step towards him. “What did she do to you?”

Certa swallowed, diverting his eyes to the floor. His fists remained balled at his sides while he clenched his jaw like he was scared of what might come out if he opened it. Ten had a feeling, something deep and heavy in his chest, that he knew what happened, or could assume. He didn’t want Certa to say it, to admit it, but he wouldn’t quite believe it otherwise.

“What did she do?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he spoke finally, his voice barely above a whisper, broken in a way no one should ever be.

“Bullshit!” Ten exclaimed causing Certa to flinch again. Cursing under his breath, he ran his hands through his hair. “You can’t sit here and pretend you’re fine when you look like that! You didn’t even fight back!” He took another step closer. “You let her come in here, let her berate you—us—and now you can’t even look me in the eye and tell me what happened!” Ten searched the Captain’s face, the way he wouldn’t meet his eyes, the way he wouldn’t speak. Then, quietly, Ten asked, “She touched you, didn’t she?”

Certa looked at him then, his pale skin paler, his usual stoicism replaced by sheer emptiness. “Leave it—”

“No, Certa!” Ten reached for him then, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him slightly like it’d snap him out of wherever he was. “What happened?! Shouldn’t you call someone?! Shouldn’t you tell them she violated the—?!”

“Does it really matter?” Certa spoke flatly. “Honestly, Ten, can you tell me it makes a difference? Will it erase what she did? Will it heal the bruises from where she held me?” He worked his jaw like he was trying to stop it from quivering. “The answer is no. It’ll just put more strain on Tessera, on our already fraught relationship.”

“She’s not supposed to be alone with you!” Ten squeezed the Captain’s shoulders. “Why don’t you give a shit?! And don’t start with that ‘object’ spiel of yours because you and I both know it’s not true!”

“Am I meant to make up some fictitious sentiment to make you feel better?” Certa spat, his gaze finally flicking up to meet the Director’s. “None of this would be happening if I were an equal, if I was meant to be something more than a tool.” His tone was detached, his eyes narrowing like he was looking for a place to sink his teeth into. “And what of you, Ver? You lecture about self-preservation like that woman didn’t make a victim out of you, as well.” His mask twisted into something almost vicious. “So what is it? Do you need to save someone else because you couldn’t save yourself? Or do you just like playing savior?”

Ten set his jaw, his face twisting with raw anger. Ver. Certa had called him Ver.

He was trying to put a wedge between them, trying to remind Ten that he was one of Them, trying to intimidate Ten into backing off, and that pissed the Director off more than the use of his name—Eftichia's name.

But for all of Ten's anger, he knew better than to play into his hands.

“I wasn’t molested! I’m not the one standing there like his soul has been sucked out of him!” Ten threw his hands in the air before dragging them down his face. “Fuck! You’re unbelievable! Do you want to hear me say it?! That I was abused? Beat half to death?! ‘Cause I will if it gets you to stop being such a fucking—!”

“Do you think I'm an imbecile?” Certa sneered, cutting him off. “Do you think I just lay down and take it? I'm sure you understand that it’s easier to let it happen than it is to retaliate.”His voice steady, eerily steady for someone who was devoid of light. “Thats how I cope.” Certa spoke bluntly, stepping forward until their chests brushed before lowering his voice almost accusatively. “You’re angry because that’s how you cope.”

“I’m angry because I’m pissed! I’m angry because you think you don’t deserve basic human decency!” He grabbed Certa’s wrists firmly, though without restraining them. “I’m angry because I’m processing it instead of shoving it down like it doesn’t matter!” His lip quivered slightly, maybe with anger or perhaps something deeper. Then, gathering himself, Ten took a deep breath, dropped the Captain’s wrists, and stepped back. “What do you need me to do?”

“You just said you’re not ‘shoving it down’.”

“I’m not,” Ten said firmly. “But I can’t feel better about my situation when you’re this fucking empty.” His fingers twitched at his sides, wanting to reach out but fighting the urge. “So tell me, what do you need?”

Certa just stared at him, the words seeping into his skin. When he finally spoke, it was quiet, almost shameful. “A shower.”

“Okay.” Ten exhaled a breath he didn’t know he had been holding, but when Certa didn’t move, he furrowed his brows. Certa shifted his weight and flicked his eyes elsewhere, avoiding the Director’s gaze. “I want you to wash me.”

Ten nodded but said nothing as he followed the Captain up the stairs, down the hall, into the bedroom, and finally to the connecting bathroom. He didn't watch as Certa undressed, didn't watch how he methodically folded each article as they came off, and he didn’t watch how Certa’s eyes lingered on his bare form in the mirror.

It wasn't that the Director didn't want to see the older man's hurt, he didn't want to be an audience. He didn’t want the Captain to feel like he was another pair of scrutinizing eyes.

But Ten did see how Certa silently stood in the middle of the cold, marble room like he was waiting for a revelation or some divine instruction. It wouldn't come, whatever it was he was looking for. And when he finally turned, his voice was resigned, broken like he had given up at trying to hide it. "I'm ready."

The Director drew his lips into a line, off-put by how it sounded like Certa was preparing himself for execution.

"Are you sure you don't want to do this yourself?" Ten approached, his hands hovering over the Captain's shoulders. "I can sit out here while you wash—so you're not alone, I mean."

Certa swallowed thickly before shaking his head. "No, I want you to do it." Cautiously, he reached out to hold Ten's forearms. Then, quietly: "I can't stomach touching myself."

The admission made Ten's heart lurch. If it were up to him, that woman wouldn't have the hands to touch anything ever again. Still, he nodded and dropped his hands to work on removing his own clothes, stripping until Certa stopped him before he could take off his underwear. "Keep them on."

Ten blinked a few times but didn't question the request. He kept them on.

Certa moved to the shower to turn the water on, watching as the showerhead sputtered to life before it released a steady stream of water. The sound filled the stagnant space with a quiet hiss and the air promptly thickened with humidity. Certa stepped beneath the stream then, his body rigid, eyes fixed on the drain like he was waiting for himself to disappear along with the water. His dark hair clung to his face, droplets trailing down the sharp planes of his cheekbones before vanishing into the hollow of his throat.

The image was devastating.

The Captain had always been different—gloomy—but this wasn't that. This was despair, complete emptiness. Steam curled in tendrils around him and Ten just watched. Not out of pity or because Certa was some exhibit, but because he didn't know what to do.

But, he knew what he had to do, so he opened the glass door and stepped in.

The water soaked through his boxers, the fabric heavy as it clung impossibly further to his skin. He combed his wet hair over his head before reaching for Certa. His hands were gentle when they brushed over the older man’s nape as if he were testing the waters. The Captain didn't flinch, didn't tense, he just stood.

Somehow that was more unsettling.

Ten didn't push, though, and raked his fingers over the Certa's scalp, guiding the water into his roots. He was careful, but not overly so, not in a way that would feel patronizing and make Certa out to be some fragile thing. Because he wasn't, and he hated to be coddled. Ten was lucky—in a morbid sort of way—that he had even asked for help, a request that could be withdrawn at any moment.

So, Ten was careful.

“Do you want me to wash your hair?” An absurd question for a shower, but this wasn’t a shower. Not really. It was a purging, a ritual of cleansing the sin from his being. He wanted to do it however Certa wanted it done. If he wanted to be scrubbed until he bled, Ten would do it.

“Might as well,” Certa shrugged, turning to face his Director. When their eyes met, Ten tried to suppress the way his breath hitched and the tugging at his lips. His eyes, even his breathtaking eyes, were desecrated. They were dull and dark despite their light, piercing hue. It was like even that had been stolen from him.

But Ten didn’t waver, didn’t make a sound of sorrow or an expression of pity. He just held the crown of Certa’s head like it were something precious and ran his thumbs over his forehead. Slightly, so imperceptible Ten was sure he could’ve imagined it, Certa relaxed into it.

“Close your eyes.” While it wasn't a question, it was still a request, albeit a soft one. The Captain blinked up at him, searching his face for something before letting his eyes flutter closed. Ten removed his hands to lather the shampoo between his palms. However, when he moved back to Certa’s head, the man flinched at the contact, his eyes shooting open.

Ten pulled back immediately, his hands hovering over his scalp. “It’s just me.”

“I know, I was just…” He trailed off, shaking his head and nodding before closing his eyes again. Ten continued, and this time, Certa didn’t flinch.

He focused on the way the Director’s fingers pressed into his scalp, firm but not overbearing. The movements were steady, sure, and grounding as the detergent was worked through his navy strands. It smelled gentle—soft, and creamy like sweet oats, not heavy or overly perfumed. It was subtle but lingered even after it was rinsed, something familiar, and distinctly his. More than Ten’s touch, it was the routine, the familiarness of his things that steadied him.

Ten thoroughly rinsed Certa’s scalp once the conditioner had soaked before carefully moving on to the more daunting task. “How do you want to do this?”

Certa, whose shoulders were still squared but had softened just so, took a moment of consideration. “Use the cloth, not your hands. And you need to scrub. Hard, like you’re trying to take my skin off.”

The Director stared for a moment, recognizing that this was a routine—or had been—before nodding and reaching for the soap and washcloth. He lathered the fabric and started at Certa’s hands, scrubbing his palms, between his fingers, over his knuckles and wrists. It was methodical, resembling the care Certa always used to clean himself, though this was significantly more extreme.

As Ten moved up his arms, he scrubbed as instructed, creating a friction that was a little more intense than exfoliating. The process continued smoothly until Ten got to Certa’s torso. He moved down the Captain’s chest, over the ridges of his ribs, and down the firmness of his abdomen. Then to his back, down his spine, over each notch. When the towel scrubbed at his waist, and over his hips, Certa froze. His hand shot out and grabbed Ten’s wrist, effectively stopping his effort.

“‘You good?” The Director asked, his hand stilling against Certa’s skin. “Do you want to do it?”

“I don’t want to feel myself,” Certa muttered, releasing Ten’s wrist. He took a deep breath, exhaling before meeting Ten’s expectant gaze. “Just be careful.”

“Tell me to stop if it’s too much,” Ten reassured before continuing his task. His hands went further, back over the soft swell of Certa’s lower abdomen, down the sharp jut of his hips, but before he could go lower, Ten knelt. Certa snapped his head down in shock, not because he was fearful, but because Ten had lowered himself.

Something in his chest pulled as he looked to the ceiling, clenching his jaw and swallowing thickly. Ten wasn’t taking, wasn’t touching to humiliate him. Certa still tensed when he began working on his inner thighs, but when Ten stilled, when he looked up and reassured him, gave him an out, there was no malice. So Certa let—no, allowed him to work, to scrub, to make him clean again.

And Ten was careful as he cleaned between Certa’s legs, but that’s all he did. He didn’t prod or inspect his oddity, didn’t make any demeaning comments, or linger longer than necessary.

While Certa still wasn't comfortable, the notion of control, of being in his own space, of it being Ten, made it easier. He focused on the smell of the soap, the way it blended effortlessly with his hair products, complementing the sweet creaminess with something similar, like shea and rice—smooth and warm, rich like cream in fresh, black tea. It was never cloying, never too much, always comforting and simple in the way he needed it to be, especially now when things were far too complicated, when he felt like nothing was really his.

But that wasn't true.

He was standing in his shower enveloped in his scent with his Ten washing him like he was the only thing that mattered, like Thier's words were an afterthought. And maybe they were, they should've been, anyway. But as Certa's mind swam, Ten remained focused, steady. And if his swam, too, he didn’t let it interfere.

The process was carefully thorough until its completion.

When Certa was 'clean', Ten didn't touch him with his bare hands. He turned the water off and let Certa step out first so he could establish some sort of modesty with the towel, but he didn't. He stood silently for a moment, water trailing down his form to puddle at his feet until he turned to face his Director. The towel was held out in a silent offer, a silent request.

Ten blinked but stepped forward, accepting the towel to begin ridding the Captain's body of the glistening beads of moisture. This, too, was gentle. He rubbed the fabric against Certa's skin, making sure that every part of him was dry before running it through his dark hair. Certa's face scrunched at the assault, his eyes closed to avoid the rouge droplets that threatened to fall in.

For the first time that evening, the tension dissolved—if only slightly—and Certa looked...well, if Ten were honest, Certa looked like a drenched kitten. It was ironic, how human he was even now.

Ten pulled the towel tight around the Captain's shoulders and gave him a reassuring smile when he finally opened his eyes. They stood in a sort of half-embrace until something in Certa gave in. His head fell onto Ten's collarbone as he sobbed. It wasn't dramatic or overt—it was silent, eerily so. He didn't cry. But here, his shoulders shook, each quiet gasp twisting in Ten's chest. Finally, the Director wrapped his arms around Certa's frame, tighter than he should have, surely, but he couldn't let go.

"Okay," he said quietly, pulling the older man impossibly closer as if they could somehow merge into one, like he could somehow shield Certa with his own skin. "It's okay, Certa. I'm here, it's okay."

"No, it's not," the Captain rasped, his fingers gripping the Director's arms almost painfully. When he lifted his head, his eyes, while still hollow, glinted with something dangerous. "I want to kill her."

Ten laughed. He didn't mean to, it wasn't funny, but his chest heaved anyway. It was almost a desperate, disbelieving noise that sounded like a sob of his own. He held Certa's head, brushing the damp strands from his face before connecting their foreheads. "Me too."

Certa's lips twitched at the corners. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he shifted to brush his lips against the Captain's temple. "I'd do anything for you."

"She hurt you, too."

"Yes."

"So do it for yourself." Certa reached up, his hands framing Ten's face. "Don't you have something to reclaim?"

"Are you telling me to—?"

"No." Certa shook his head, dropping his hands to Ten's bare waist. "Even if it belongs to the devil, taking a life is wrong." He leaned in again, his cheek pressing against the Director's chest. "Still, I find myself taking solace in the thought of..."

"Hurting her?" Certa hummed. "Me too." Ten shifted the towel from Certa's shoulders to secure it around his waist, where it should've been, before resting his hand on the Captain's upper back. "Can we get dressed now? If I’m cold, you must be freezing."

Certa didn't say anything, nor did he protest the hand on his back or Ten's suggestion. Instead, he took the Director's hand and led him out of the bathroom and into the expansive closet.

It was no longer shocking, the sheer amount of clothes the Captain had in his possession, but Ten still couldn't fathom it.

Certa wasn't a frivolous man. Besides the black suits and his other personal wear, most were gifts and had never been worn. However, while it was excessive, it wasn't necessarily a signal of Certa's wealth more than it was of Tessera's influence. He’d wear what they wanted him to, he was good at picking his battles. Still, regardless of Their omnipresence, it was Certa's home and Ten had long carved a space for himself among the Captain’s abundance.

While Ten was changing into dry underwear and pulling up a pair of sweatpants, he watched as Certa seemed to consider his choices. It was a habit he noticed the other man had. Dressing in contexts outside of work seemed to require great deal of brain power for him. It was always an ordeal—even now, when they were staying in.

The Captain stared like he was taking inventory, like he was mentally filing every single article he owned through filters in his impossible. It always amused Ten because, for all he owned, the Captain was not an extravagant dresser. Sure, he was refined in a way that turned heads, but that was because he was always dressed to the nines, not because he was flamboyant or fashionably bold. For all his pondering, his choices were always predictable.

Ten wasn't sure what the point of such deep thought was—control, probably—but he didn't care. If it helped, even if it didn't, it seemed to serve a purpose beyond simple vanity. He couldn’t be concerned.

After careful deliberation, the Captain ended up on a casual pair of slacks—which were somehow different than his suit trousers...Ten wouldn't know—and a plain long sleeve. He dressed methodically, almost robotically, as he pulled his pants on, tucked his shirt in, and sat down to put on a pair of socks. When he stood, he eyed the Director's sweatpants and half-tucked t-shirt.

Ten expected a sarcastic comment but none came; all he got was the pointed glare, which, was a lot of control on Certa's part. He always fussed over Ten's attire, even at home. The Director let him, of course, it kind of endearing in an obsessive sort of way. Ten cared about his appearance, of course, but needing to look so put-together even in privacy was a bit too serious for him. Truthfully, he'd be comfortable wearing nothing more than his underwear at any given time, but his lover was a prude.

When he finally finished glaring, Certa turned to exit the closet but was stopped by a gentle hand on his shoulder. He turned, furrowing his brows until Ten picked up and held out a bottle of cologne. "'Forgot something."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"I know," Ten said, uncapping the bottle. "But it's you."

Certa rolled his eyes but stepped towards Ten anyway, allowing him to apply the fragrance. Ten didn't explain himself and Certa didn't push.

It would be easy to lie and say he just liked how the Captain smelt, but Ten didn't trust his mouth. If he were to be honest, he wanted Certa to feel whole, like himself again. He didn't care that they weren't going anywhere, that Certa found it wasteful, because the light in his eyes, even if small, was priceless. So he didn't elaborate and the Captain didn't demand him to...perhaps he already knew.

The cologne, subtle, but unmistakable, carried a tart edge of bergamot, bright and biting, tempered by the smooth, warm undertone of amber that lingered like heat from a fading fire. It mingled with the softness of his soaps—the milky, sweetness of oats and shea—and the freshness of his just-pressed laundry.

When Certa was finally put together, they walked hand-in-hand out of the closet, then the bedroom, down the hallway, the stairs, and into the kitchen. Ten gestured to the stools at the island, and though he needed no invitation in his own home, the Captain sat.

He watched as the Director gathered a porcelain dish and a couple of oranges that were sat on the counter between them. Ten got to work peeling, less-than-carefully stripping the fruit of its rind. The sharp scent of citrus filled the space, cutting crisply through the tension, the space that Thier had so easily invaded.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Certa started quietly, his eyes trained on Ten's hands as he peeled an orange. "About you, I mean, how you're feeling."

"Nah," he dismissed, peeling the wedges apart and depositing them on the porcelain dish between them. "Unless you're gonna let me hit her this time I don't think we should rehash."

The Captain hummed, picking up one of the wedges and turning it over in his fingers thoughtfully. "I feel like a…something like this shouldn’t bother someone like me." He started, peeling the pith from the fruit. “I don’t really feel, but this? It gnaws at me.”

"Are you serious?" Ten paused. “Like, I know you’re you, but you still have feelings, even if you don’t think they’re normal—whatever that means.” He shook his head, his fingers resuming their task. "What kind of person endures what you have for four hundred years?"

"It's not like I have a choice." Certa drew his lips. "I can't die. Believe me, I’ve tried."

"I know. But you’re still here, aren’t you?" The question hung in the air, but Certa didn't respond. "You still get up in the morning, get dressed, and go to work every day." Ten put the fruit down and reached out to take Certa's hand. "Hell, my father never touched me and I was just...It's not easy, especially not for four hundred years. But even after everything, you’re still here, human."

Certa faltered. "Is that really what you think?"

"No," Ten said simply and Certa tensed, waiting for ridicule or maybe a backhanded comment, but it never came. Ten smiled instead. "But I might start crying if I said what I really thought, and, you know, that's not exactly great for my tough-guy persona."

For the first time that evening, the Captain's face relaxed, the corners of his lips quirking slightly into something resembling a smile. "You?" He chuckled quietly, at least something like it. "I’m not sure that 'asshole' and 'tough guy' are synonymous."

Ten laughed and waved his hand. "Semantics."

They settled into an easy sort of silence, the weight of the day still looming but not so present in each other’s company. It was heavy, but with two people carrying it, it wasn’t so bad. Ten worked on another orange, cutting a hole in the rind before lifting it up with his thumb and peeling it back. It was methodical, predictable, the kind of motion Certa absentmindedly tracked with his eyes, the kind that attempted to soothe his irreparably frayed nerves.

Ten put another wedge on the plate between them, the dish clinking softly as it moved against the marble. His lips twitched like he was debating spilling state secrets—and maybe he was, but it certainly wasn’t anything he hadn’t said before.

When he finally spoke, breaking the silence, it was quiet, almost a whisper. “I love you, you know.”

“For some reason,” the Captain deadpanned, finally taking a bite of his piece of orange.

The Director smiled at him, standing to throw away the rinds. “For a lot of reasons, actually.”

“You’ll get tired of me eventually.”

Ten stopped in his tracks, turning to face the Captain, his hands still full of orange peels. “Certa,” he said sincerely, emptying his hands before stepping back beside the older man. “I don’t want to fix you.”

Certa furrowed his brow slightly before huffing a laugh. “What sort of sense does that make?”

“Maybe none, but if I didn’t want you I wouldn’t be standing here.”

“And yet, you continue to suffer,” he avoided Ten’s eyes, fixing his gaze on the marble of the counter. “All I do is hurt people. You should be with someone simpler.”

“And miss out on you? Not a chance.” He barked a laugh, carding his fingers through Certa’s still-damp hair. “I told you I’d do anything for you, did you think I was lying?”

“I was hoping,” he sighed, flicking his eyes to briefly meet Ten’s. “But now I think you’ve lost your mind.”

“Then I must be the craziest bastard alive ‘cause I’d kill that bitch if you told me to.”

Certa sighed but finally leaned into the other man’s touch, allowing himself to be pulled against Ten’s chest. He took a deep breath, letting his eyes flutter closed for a moment before muttering, “You’d be sent for execution.”

“Mm, ‘doesn’t sound so bad.” He kissed the Captain’s hair, tapping his finger just above his left eyebrow. “You could keep me in this pretty little head of yours forever.”

“You’d get bored.”

“Maybe,” Ten hummed again, resting his cheek atop Certa’s head. “But I’d be yours, so I think I’d be alright.”

They stayed like that for a while, neither moving nor touching the peeled oranges still on the counter. It was solemn. While, Ten wasn’t the most mature person, that much was clear, he understood torment—he understood Eftichia—and he’d never turn his back on someone he loved. And gods, did he love Certa; scrubbing his skin raw and peeling oranges with him in the kitchen was hardly ‘too much’.

So when Certa shifted to wrap his arms around Ten’s waist, the Director didn’t meet it with a snide comment. It wasn’t often the Captain let his guard down, let himself be soft, let himself need.

“I appreciate you,” Certa mumbled into Ten’s shirt.

Ten laughed. “You mean you love me?”

He lifted his head, brushing his fingers over Ten’s cheek. “I mean, you’re an idiot but you’re more intelligent than most would think.”

“High praise from you, angel.” The Director smiled, brushing his lips against Certa’s temple before returning to his seat and popping an orange wedge into his mouth. Certa rolled his eyes and mumbled something under his breath before mimicking Ten.

They ate in silence but Ten knew, even if Certa put on a good act, even if he was smiling, he was exhausted and traumatized beyond comprehension. He didn’t expect him to change, didn’t expect him to feel entirely whole again, not after today—not ever—but Ten found he didn’t mind. Certa was Certa regardless of what was done to him. And even if he couldn’t find the words to speak or the will to continue, Ten would always be by his side…

Which was right where Certa wanted him to be.